


Wincestmas - 2015

by innerglow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8459695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerglow/pseuds/innerglow
Summary: All ficlets here were part of the 12 Days of Wincestmas 2015 over on tumblr.  My wonderful, talented and sweet as pie giftee was sketchydean.  <3





	1. Day One: Brothers fucking in the back seat

The first time they folded themselves into the backseat of the impala, Sam was barely seventeen and Dean, well he was out of his mind with the rush of blood that went straight from his head– _to his head_. He had wanted it so badly, had spent years holding that wild stallion of a desire, back. But Sam was begging him please and asking for more, always for more and Dean’s hands couldn’t catch up fast enough.

Dean remembers the backs of his thighs, sweaty and hot from how Sam’s thighs clung to him, Sam’s knees digging into the fold of the black leather seat. Sam’s mouth was open and panting into the crook of his neck as he sunk down onto the entirety of him, taking him in slowly–inch by, painfully lusted for, inch.

The first time was a mess of out of sync moves and a complete lack of coordination. Both of them racing against each other’s heartbeats, longing to be closer, deeper–wanting for their skins to melt and become one. And when Sam clenched around him, his entire body shuddering with the weight of his orgasm, Dean whited out. His own body stuttered to a complete halt as his own orgasm was ripped from his hips and the feeling of him slicking Sam up with his come, made him dig his fingers into Sam’s hips to ground himself.

The first time has been a constant staple in Dean’s mind since then, one he’s liked revisiting over and over again. Sometimes he’d find himself in the shower with his hand around his cock and his mouth hot against the linoleum of the shower, just remembering Sam’s moans echoing in time with the creak of the impala’s shocks as they moved together. And even when Sam had left him for Stanford, he’d sometimes find himself in the back seat, face down to the leather–just trying to feel the heat of his brother, as he fucked his hips down into the seat.

Since then, there have been other times–but as they’ve gotten older it’s been harder to fit the length of their bodies in the back (especially Sam’s). But they’ve learned to get creative over the years, ‘making it work’ so to say. Sometimes, Sam will get a wild hair up his ass half way down the road and he’ll give Dean this explicit look that reads of everything he needs and wants in that moment.

And Dean, well, he’s good a lot of things–but resisting his brother’s lips, just isn’t one of them.


	2. Day Two: Two days before stanford

Dean finds the letter folded neatly between two pairs of jeans in Sam’s duffle bag. At first sight, he doesn’t think anything of it, and continues to search for the AC/DC shirt he loaned Sam a few days ago. But then, his mind starts to wander and curiosity gets the better of him. 

His calloused fingers run across the smooth edge of the back of the envelope as he turns it over and sees the official Stanford logo. He immediately tries to tell himself it’s not what he thinks it is. It can’t be. It’s not that Sam isn’t smart enough, because fuck–he’s the smartest kid Dean’s ever known. But it can’t be, because Sam just can’t do this to him–he just can’t. 

It’s a selfish thought, Dean knows this, but he can’t help it anymore than he can help his eyes from reading the letterhead of the letter. His insides swim as his eyes skim the length of what will surely be the ammunition that will ruin everything that matters to him. It begins with congratulations and rambles on about a full ride and ends with the dates the fall semester starts. And as Dean stares at the date, he can literally feel his knees start to give out from beneath him. 

Classes begin September 21st! Dean reads it over again and he looks back at the barely hanging Sports Illustrated calendar that is on the wall and focuses on today’s date. September 19th. And that leaves exactly two days from now, until then–even less if you calculate travel time. 

“What’r you doing?!” Sam’s voice is a shriek of anxiety behind Dean. 

“Well,” Dean struggles for the words. “I was looking for that shirt I loaned you a few days ago, so I could do laundry. And imagine my shock, when I find–this.” 

Dean’s words are accusatory as he turns around and waves the letter in Sam’s direction. His ribs vibrate with anger, with desperation, with some kind of ugly aching need to tie Sam down so he can never leave him alone. Because it’s always been the two of them, always side by side and what is Dean without his little brother following him around all the time? 

“Dean…I–I wanted to tell..” Sam steps forward, his face is as white as a ghost. As though the image in front of him is a nightmare that has kept him awake plenty of nights before this moment. “I didn’t know how…” His words are defeated sounding. 

“You open your mouth and you speak, Sam! That’s how!” Dean roars with flame-licking anger. “What were you planning to do? Wake up two days from now and leave without saying anything?” 

Sam looks down at his socked feet, his toes curling under and his weight leaning forward to dig them further into the carpet. His adam’s apple bobs a few times before he looks up to speak. “Dean, I’m not going. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Because it doesn’t–”

“What do you mean, you’re not going?” Dean spits, two parts pissed. One because he can’t believe Sam didn’t say anything and now, two, because now Sam is giving up a full ride to Stanford. And for what? For a life that guarantees him nothing more than a horrible, violent death? 

“I can’t leave y–I can’t leave this, our job.” Sam corrects himself, his cheeks creeping with a heated blush at his almost spilled confession. “Dad would never allow it anyways.” 

“Fuck Dad.” Dean barks automatically and then stands looking just as shocked as Sam appears to be by his words. It’s not like Dean to talk about Dad that way. “This doesn’t come around more than once in a lifetime, Sam. You’d be stu–you’d be an idiot–to not go.”

Something in Sam’s face melts at Dean’s words. “What are you saying, Dean?”

“I’m saying that it’s going to suck not having your skinny ass to pick on on every day, when you’re gone at college.” The words physically hurt his soul as Dean says them. Because, this is really the last thing in the world he wants. But that’s just it, it’s not about what he wants–or needs. It’s Sam’s life and Sam’s always been one to crave stability, to want to dig his heels in and plant roots somewhere. 

“Dean…” Sam tries, his tone a half-hearted argument that turns more sorry sounding as Dean gives him his best ‘it’s okay’ face. 

“It’s okay, Sammy. I want you to go. Dad’ll be fine–we’ll be fine.” Dean steps forward and presses the letter against Sam’s chest, his eyes looking slightly up and into Sam’s eyes to secure his words there. “And you better save me a seat at your graduation, or else!” 

There’s a smile that creeps onto Sam’s face and Dean swears it looks like the sun rising on the horizon of one of the darkest midnight’s. And it warms the lump in his throat and allows him to swallow back the tide of emotions–just long enough to muster his best smile back. 

And then Sam’s hugging him and Dean finds his arms wrapping desperately around his brother. He’d be lying if he said that every bone in his body didn’t want to bury themselves into Sam’s chest, just so that he could never be without his brother. But then he remembers that old saying, the one that goes something like–

‘If you love something, let it go and if it comes back–it was meant to be.’

So Dean takes a deep breath and he slowly and excruciatingly finds the strength to let the only thing he’s ever truly loved– go.


	3. Day Three: Three unspoken words

They never needed to speak them, never needed to hear them out loud from the other. Those three words are foreign languages on their desperately rooted tongues. If they ever did hear them, they’d never even think twice–they’d never even blink. 

For those three words are dust in comparison to the galaxy of what is felt beneath their ribs. They don’t even register, they don’t even touch a mere inch of the depth of their entangled souls. 

Heaven and Hell have tried to solve the riddle of their hearts, tried breaking in, tried burning them down from the inside, tried to sever them from each other–but they only stand taller, stronger. 

And yet, when The Devil came knocking, when he swallowed one of them whole and the light of their lives was fated to go out, they made their own destiny. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay–I’m here, I’m not gonna leave you.” Whispered one to the other, the north star of their heart shining blindingly bright. 

And when the other overcame The Devil, just to breathe with their own lungs for the last time, they did not whisper those three words.

No, instead they stared into the only sun they’ve ever known, the only one that could have pulled them out of the Devils grips and they whispered, “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got him.” 

And that was an ‘I love you’ if ever there was one. 

The Devil, after all, never stood a chance in the ring of their hearts. Because the light of their souls was great enough to swallow darkness itself and save the world.


	4. Day Four: Four mistletoes

The first time Sam saw a mistletoe, he was ten years old and they had a Christmas kissing booth in the mall of whatever town they had been in. A whole line of people waited for their turn to kiss under the green leaves and get their picture taken. He didn’t quite understand what it all meant and every time two people kissed, he found his face pinching in disgust. Because obviously, kissing is gross. 

Sam’s second mistletoe experience was when he was fourteen and Dean had found himself a Christmas Eve date with some girl he found at the local diner in town. Of course, Sam had to come along–because Dad had left them alone for a few days and obviously that was exactly what Sam wanted to do for Christmas–watch Dean get frisky with his date. 

The mistletoe was hanging from the doorway of the same diner the girl worked at and naturally, Dean had to stop and make a show out of kissing her. And when he was done, she was blushing and giggly. Dean looked over his shoulder, back to Sam who stared on wide-eyed and quipped, “Sorry, Sammy–no kisses for you.” 

It was a joke, obviously–but the words burned Sam’s insides. Because more and more, it had been all he’d been thinking about. But of course, it was wrong and gross, and there was no way his brother–Dean Winchester, would ever want to kiss him. 

The third mistletoe was when he was sixteen and Dean and him were shopping for their long haul in a cabin in the Sierra’s. Of course, Dean was being an idiot and had found a pole with a mistletoe hanging from the end. He had chased Sam through three aisles making kissy faces and giving a pretend pout when Sam kept shooing him away. 

“You don’t want to kiss me, Sammy?” Dean’s face was bright and his cheeks full of laughter. 

Sam’s was screaming ‘yes’ inside as he forced his lips to say ‘no’. And it took all of his strength to hide the hurt from his face as Dean continued to tease him. Because there was nothing he wanted more, than to kiss Dean stupid–mistletoe or not. 

“Knock it off,” Sam had snapped, pulling the poled mistletoe from Dean’s hands and shoving it hastily onto a nearby shelve. “It’s not funny.” 

Because it really wasn’t funny for Dean to mess with his heart like that.

The fourth mistletoe comes when he least expects it. He’s coming back to his dorm after a night long study session in the library. The campus is a ghost town, because everyone had gone home for the Holidays, but him? He had nowhere to go, no home that awaited him. And that was okay, he made his bed and he knew he had to lie in it–no matter how much he wanted to see Dean. 

When he opens the door to his room, it’s dark except for the fact that his bedside lamp is turned on. He thinks it odd, but keeps pushing forward into his room and he’s caught off guard when his eyes meet those familiar green ones, standing behind the door. 

“Heya, Sammy…” Dean’s voice is a whisper, the sides of his eyes crinkling in a smile. 

“Dean?” 

“Yea, College Boy–it’s me,” Dean says, stepping closer and invading Sam’s space. 

There’s no words exchanged for a few minutes as they allow their eyes to readjust to each other. But finally, it’s Dean who speaks again.

“You left me with a lot to think about,” Dean admits and Sam’s lips burn at the memory of that goodbye kiss. The one that spoke of every reason why he needed to leave in the first place. The answer to all the ‘whys’ Dean had questioned. 

“Dean–” Sam starts to explain but is caught off when Dean shushes him. 

Sam looks up to where Dean has his hand raised and where a cheap mistletoe hangs. 

“Merry Christmas, Sammy…” Dean whispers. “Now shut up and kiss me.” 

And when Dean’s lips meet Sam’s, it takes Sam by surprise. His stomach feels like the Fourth of July, the rush of happiness and longing so bright and wanting. 

Finally, after all these years, the only thing he’s always wanted is there wanting him back. And yeah, that makes it a very Merry Christmas indeed.


	5. Day Five: Five motel beds

Dean Winchester doesn’t have a lot of fond memories of the shack-like motels they’ve found themselves in over the years. More often than not, there’s weird stains on the carpet, the wallpaper is always peeling, they always the stink of some kind of mold, the water pressure usually sucks and the beds are always hard as hell.

But if Dean thinks back, there’s a couple memories that he can think of that make him smile. Memories that make the shitty feel of the motel they were staying at, seem not so bad:

 **The Harbor Inn** \- _Jasper, MN_

Sam and him were cooped up while Dad was finishing up a hunt a few towns over. And the entire time they stayed there, Sam had nasty nightmares. It probably had a lot to do with him being hot off his first hunt with John and Dean, but he’d never admit it out loud.

Somehow Sam ended up in his bed, his body hot as it slotted up along Dean’s. It was the first time they had slept in the same bed in years, When they were younger, they used to do it all the time–but when Sam’s hormones started to kick in, they quietly started to sleep in different beds.

But with Sam next to him after so long, it felt like coming home after being homesick for years. Sam tucked his head under Dean’s chin and wrapped his arms around Dean’s chest. And they slept like that for hours, for longer than they should have. Both of them sleeping in, both of them sleeping deeper and more peacefully than they had in ages.

In the morning, he would feel his heart in his chest at the feeling of Sam hard up against him. Just the feeling of his brother against his thigh, made him get up in a hurry to conceal his own half hard dick from Sam.

Jasper, Minnesota… what an odd town to realize you’ve always had the hots for your little brother.

 **Safe Haven Motel** \- _Laramie, WY_

He got Sam drunk for the first time, off of Dad’s whiskey. He knew their Dad would be pissed as fuck to come back and find the empty bottle, but he just couldn’t find any fucks to give. It was Sammy’s birthday. And they both deserved some fun.

But drunken fun turned into a wrestling match, that turned into kissing, that turned into dry humping, that turned into Sam giving him a blowjob for the first time. Sam’s sweet as sin lips, wrapping around the length of him like they were goddamned made only for that. Sam working his cock like he’s wanted to do nothing else his entire life. The hollow of his cheeks a beautiful sight, as he hungrily sucked Dean’s orgasm right on out of him.

When he tried to return the favor, Sam blushed and that was when Dean noticed he already creamed his jeans. His baby bro, getting off on sucking him dry. The thought alone was almost good enough to get him half hard again.

 **Sleepy Inn** \- _Bellbrook, OH_

They spent a whole lazy afternoon with each other’s hands on the others dick, giving each other a hand job at the same exact time.

He even made a game out of it. Showed Sam exactly what he wanted, by doing it to Sam. And when Sam mirrored what he had done, to his own dick–Dean couldn’t help the string of wanting curses that littered out of his mouth.

Both of them found it endlessly captivating to watch each other’s faces as they stroked up and down, fast and then slow, teasingly finger-light touches and then tight-fisted. Each variety bringing a different facial expression and sound. And when they both found one they liked, they kept it up–pushing each other over the edge until both of their bellies were come soaked.

 **Lakeside Motel** \- _Shasta, Oregon_

Sam had gotten grazed by a bullet that had ricocheted from his own gun. It was only a surface wound, and Sam didn’t make a big deal out of it–knew Dean didn’t shoot him purposefully. But Dean couldn’t stop worrying nervously over Sam. Couldn’t help but apologize a hundred or so times as he took Sam’s shirt off and cleaned him up.

Something about knowing that his bullet had hurt Sam had lit some kind of gnawing need insight of his gut. A need to make sure Sam was okay, safe, and alive. One minute he was taping a bandage over Sam’s arm and the next he was leaving bruising kisses on his little brother’s lips. Sloppy, I can’t lose you, I don’t know what I’d ever do without you, I’m sorry I hurt you–kisses.

Before that night, they had kept themselves to just hand jobs and blow jobs. And they had always sated the burning desire in his gut, if only temporarily. But Dean needed something more, something deeper and all consuming. And as he ravished Sam’s lips and throat, Sam let Dean move him like clay in his hands. He was pliant and willing, his own teeth nipping to leave marks on Dean’s skin.

Dean fucked Sam that night, their hands clasped and their eyes locked. The feel of Sam all around him was intoxicating, hypnotizing and he knew from that moment forward–he’d only ever belong to him.

And when Sam came, Dean’s name on his lips–Dean knew Sam felt the same way.

 **Foothills Inn** \- _Rapid City, SD_

By the time they stayed in this hotel, they had been going at it for awhile. They could barely keep their hands off each other, could barely finish a hunt without wanting to fuck and blow each other against every surface they could find.

But here, here in this motel, Sam asks for something that Dean had never previously thought that he’d might want. And if at first, his reaction was a solid ‘no’, his brother’s puppy dog eyes had him second guessing his stance on the subject.

Sam said he just wanted to know what it felt like, that he needed to know. His fingers had traced the curve of Dean’s back, his eyes open and loving. And it wasn’t that Dean was scared, it was just that if Sam had him in that way–he knew he’d be letting his brother see him deeper and clearer than ever before.

And it happens in a perfect mirror of the first time he fucked Sam, but this time Sam was fucking him into the mattress. Sam’s fox eyes piercing into the back of his head and when Sam bottom out inside of him, Dean felt himself leave his body with the euphoria that rushed through his veins. And when Sam picked up his pace and hit that spot (that sweet heavenly spot) over and over again, Dean knew it wouldn’t be the last time he’d want Sam inside of him.

When he came, his little brother shoved so deep inside of him–he whited out and the world didn’t come back into focus for several minutes after.

–

Of course, there were other beds since these memories, but Dean curls around Sam and kisses the back of his neck. It’s been ten years since the first memory and fuck him, he’s still just as in love with his little brother–if not, more.

And as Dean falls asleep, he thinks about how lucky he is. After all, some people search forever for the type of love they share, but Sam and him have never had to go a day without it.


	6. Day Six - Six lies

The first lie comes shortly after you discover you want more. You tell him you’ve never been in love, tell him the pretty girls you bring home are just for show. But what you don’t tell him, is that you’ve been in love since May 2nd, 1983.

When he kisses you on the lips, he’s sixteen and nervous. You don’t say anything afterwards, you leave the motel room and get drunk nearby. You drink until you can’t feel the burning press of his lips against yours anymore. In the morning when he wakes, his lashes are rimmed with red and you know he cried himself to sleep. But it still doesn’t prevent you from uttering the words, _I don’t feel the same way_. Your stomach lurches as you say it, your heart sinking into the depths of your ribs at the sound of your own words. And when he pulls into himself for days, weeks, whole months on end–its enough to drive you crazy. But you tell yourself another lie and try to convince yourself it’s for the best.

The letter from Stanford almost breaks your stoic stance. His eyes search yours, his lighthouses looking for a reason to stay close to shore. He wants you to freak out, wants you to care about him leaving, wants you to tell the truth. And you want to, every aching bone in your body wants to beg him to stay, but your words contradict you. _I’m happy for you_ , are the words you choose.

When he leaves four months later, you try to convince yourself that it’s not your fault. Try to tell yourself he’s not leaving because of the war inside of yourself. Try to tell yourself that even if you did tell him that he’s the goddamned sun burning the galaxy of your soul alive, that he’s the only reason why your heart soldiers on–he’d never believe you anyway. You tell him you’ll call, but you know you won’t. And when the bus pulls away, you tell yourself he’ll be back–but instead, you watch years go by.

You tell him, _Dad hasn’t been home in a few days_ , when you finally see him again. And it’s the truth, but not the real reason you stand in his apartment. _I was driving by_ , you say. _And I couldn’t let another minute pass until you knew_. When he asks what you mean, you lean into him and claim his lips. You kiss him and his lips tremble against yours before they reach back hungrily.

And when you both pull apart, you let the lies fall away with the single truth you’ve hid away all these years. _I love you_ , you say quietly. _I’ve loved you my entire life, I’ve never loved anyone else– just you_ , you admit and his dimples pierce the darkness with a patient smile.

 _I know_ , he whispers. He kisses you long and deep, and you feel your lungs sigh their first real breath of relief in years. And when he pulls away, to look into your eyes, he whispers reassuringly– _It’s okay, I’ve always known. And I love you, too._


	7. Day Seven: Leather jacket headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact (if anyone is reading this), but this wholly inspired my j2-spn-bigbang from last year - A Brother's Lament (A Slow Death).

It’s the last thing his brother touched, the last thing that bears any semblance of Sam’s warmth. The collar still bears the blood from his brother’s knuckles–the life source that proves he existed at all in the first place. And after Cas took his injuries away, it’s the only thing Dean has, that is tangible proof of Sam’s sacrifice. 

He takes it off shortly after the hole swallowed Sam whole. He removes it gently, careful not to disturb the places his brother’s hands curled around the collar. And as he folds it up, he lets his fingers hover over the blood, over the fading warmth of Sam’s body and he thinks of his brother’s farewell smile. 

It takes him awhile before he’s ready to part with it, but he buries the jacket in Stull Cemetery. And as he shovels the dirt back over the box that holds the last shreds of his old life, he begins to cry. He’s tried so damn hard to be strong for Sam, for everyone–but it hasn’t even been a full 6 hours and his hands already shake with the grief of missing Sam. 

When he’s done, he gets in Baby and he slowly watches the cemetery (and Sam) fade away in the rearview mirror. In front of him lies a world, cold and gray, with the promises of an apple pie life that doesn’t mean anything with Sam in the ground. But he keeps driving, foot to the petal–because he made a promise, one he swore to keep. And if he couldn’t do anything else for Sam, he’d do that–because it’s what Sam had wanted for him. 

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t show up at Stull Cemetery on the weekends, his knees digging into the dirt at the makeshift grave for his brother. Would be lying if he said he didn’t stay there for hours, just talking about his new life and the thousands of ways the entirety of his body and soul missed his old one. 

Especially Sam.


	8. Day Eight: Boyking

He stands and the world falls at the beauty of him, his body like a sun that casts a weary shadow upon the world. Gold thorns dig into his temples and his midnight eyes lick the hides of those who dare not bow before his feet. 

“My King…” His brother greets, his hands stained red. 

He smiles his nightmare grin and feels his chest growl with what some would call love. But it’s twisted now, a cracked mirror of what it used to be. No longer do they save the world, but now they rule its depths. And his brother brings him offerings. Brings him screams, brings him blood. He bathes him in the burned flesh of those who cursed His Name. He licks their last words into his mouth and he smiles that crooked smile as he kisses him deep. 

“They will fall before you, or they will meet my blade.”


	9. Day Nine-Twelve: Shotgunning!kink

Dean picked up the habit somewhere between 16 and 18, somewhere between Sioux Falls, SD and Lawrence, KS, somewhere between taking care of his little Brother, to being so goddamned in love with Sammy. It might have been a bar trick he used to age himself, might have been picked up just out of pure boredom–he can’t really remember the specifics. 

But god does his mouth crave the warm butt of a cigarette. 

If John ever caught him sneaking out in the middle of the night to chain smoke by the vending machines, he’d skin him alive. And Dean laughs at the thought, because it’s kind of moronic when there’s worse things to worry about in the world he lives in. And that’s just it, the smoke, the nicotine help soothe his rattled nerves–help keep the brave front he wears so well. 

And then somewhere between Sheridan, WY and Missoula, MT is where he gets introduced to weed for the first time. It’s sweet and sticky, makes his lungs burn in a different way and man does it silence that nagging voice in the back of his mind. The one that’s constantly going, has been on high alert ever since he was four and fuck him–Dean can find peace for an hour. 

Sam catches him rolling a blunt on the hood of the impala one night in Wenatchee, WA. Dad left them for a few days and Dean can smoke more openly. And even with Sam’s worrying eyes fussing over his hands as his fingers roll the paper between his index fingers and his thumbs, he can’t help but crack a grin. 

“’S okay, Sammy.” 

Sam is all of 16 and his limbs are long and disproportionate with the rest of him. And every goddamned day he gets more beautiful. That much Dean can’t deny. 

“What is it?” Sam asks, stepping closer to look at what is in Dean’s hands. 

“This here,” Dean lifts the rolled joint and pulls it under his nose to exaggerate a sniff. "Is my sweet friend, Mary Jane.“ 

Sam’s eyebrows furrow, but he continues to watch as Dean flips back the lid on his zippo and lights up the end of the joint. Watches as Dean’s beautiful lips pull around the edges and how his cheeks hollow out to spark the cigarette looking thing alive. When Dean’s satisfied, he leans back, his chest expanded for a moment, before he lets out the swirling smoke into the night air. And Sam is captivated. 

“E'vr try it?” Dean questions, his hand waves the joint. 

Sam shakes his head in a clear ‘no’. 

“Do you wanna?" 

"I dunno, Dean…” Sam is timid and maybe slightly scared. 

“I know the best way for you to try it….” Dean takes another pull of the blunt and holds it longer this time, before blowing o’s directly into Sam’s direction. "Do you trust me, Sammy?“

"Always.” It’s an immediate answer, Sam doesn’t even have to think about it. 

“C'mere.” Dean waves Sam closer. 

Sam moves his feet, his chest tightening with the close proximity of being so close to his Brother. Of being in that private space around Dean, the space that is so often reserved just for him–the space where his skin comes alive and his heart does somersaults. 

Dean holds the joint between his fingers and pulls himself a deep inhale. And when he’s satisfied he leans in closer to Sam, his lips part when he’s inches away and the thumb of his free hand brushes over Sam’s lips and watches as Sam opens for him willing. Watches as Sam’s eyes ache around his lips, afraid they’ll miss a thing if he happens to close them. And then he slots his lips so close to his Brother’s, Sam’s mouth open and warm and welcoming–and he blows his lung full of smoke into Sam’s mouth. 

Sam’s eyes do close as the smoke swells around their lips, emptying from Dean’s and entering Sam’s. And Sam struggles at first, but then he finds his throat and starts to inhale. He pulls away as he chokes it down, his eyes watering slightly–but his cheeks warming in a brilliant flush. 

“Again.” Sam whispers. 

Dean mirrors his actions before and this time cradles Sam’s face in both of his hands as he leans forward and latches on to Sam’s open mouth, his lips kissing the smoke into his Brother’s. And Dean swears to god his knees almost give out when he hears Sam’s breathy moan. Swears his mind goes blank when Sam kisses the smoke back into his mouth. 

It goes like this for several minutes, till the joint is just nub and needs to be put out. And when they’re done, they lay on the hood of the impala, unashamed to be tangled in each other’s arms. They watch the twinkling stars above, their minds cotton soft and their lips burning with the sin of their kisses. 

And there goes another habit, Dean thinks–but maybe not one as bad for him as the first. Smoking might kill him, hell loving Sam as much as he does–might just do the same, but at least the latter fills his heart with much-needed warmth and that, a good smoke could never do.


End file.
